Blue
by ko-drabbles
Summary: That's the thing. Tears aren't blue, so it annoys him. Irrational irritation he supposes, but everyone has that. At least he don't have to wash the blue from his clothes, his face, and his pillows? [Story moved to my fic "Colours", sorry for any inconveniences!]


Tachibana set him "goals" to accomplish a for a few days; getting out of bed, brushing his teeth, eating something, taking a shower. It distantly felt extremely patronising, but just getting up to brush his teeth left him exhausted and longing for his bed again. It was all dull, floating through like an apparition as he attempted to do extremely basic tasks all other people do to function. Back in the safety of his duvet cocoon, he spent a little longer than he was proud of pondering if he really was a living, thinking, feeling human in these moments.

Still, despite how, well... utterly shit he felt, and how fuzzy his mind was, three days was all Tachibana was willing to "enable" him. He was packed off to school with the promise that, if he felt _that bad_ , he could go home sick about three hours in. He wasn't angry at his beloved bodyguard at all; both because he was too numb for a strong reaction, and it wasn't wrong. He knew that the normality and structure would help. But he also knew that he wanted to crawl into his bed again and sleep. Nothing really felt all that important when you think about how your existence felt unimportant in the grand scheme of things; especially as you knew you were the product of makeup sex and too much wine.

He just wanders through the halls to his classroom, mask clipping into place sickeningly easily. He remembered how to do it, from way back in middle school; it shouldn't have unsettled him, it didn't mean anything, but he wasn't really in his right mind. He was sick, tired, and he wanted to be anywhere else but here.

It would be alright, though. Tamaki was here. Tamaki did… _something_ to fix him before, it would happen again. They'd have classes, he'd go to club, and he'd smile like it was second nature. He'd be happy because his life _was_ happy now. His father was _trying_ , he had loyal friends he loved, everything was _so good_. Then… why? Why was he like this? Chemical imbalances happened, of course, but he was miserable before because he was isolated. Tamaki **fixed him**.

It wasn't magical, however. He met up with Tamaki, who worried and flitted around him, and he made the excuse that – while not contagious, _put the mask down_ – he was still a little sick. Nothing was different. The excuses left a sour taste in his mouth, his smile hurt, his voice was too monotone, too soft. He really should have expected that.

"I basically just slept, and I'm still exhausted. I might go home early…" He told him, and it wasn't wrong. In fact, that was the most honest thing he'd said all day.

He sat in classes, right up until art class. He enjoyed art, immensely. He liked to think of himself as a painter, even if he didn't do as much as he'd like. Classic oils and water colours – boring, but beautiful and _hard to do_. Meanwhile, Tamaki worked on making _perfect_ little dots on his piece of pop art; a yellow haired woman crying blue tears.

It's something that rubbed him the wrong way; blue tears. It was ridiculous, and irrational, but everyone has those odd little pet peeves that don't make any sense. Something in him says that it's because, of all the tears he's cried while alone in his room, not a single one was blue. Another part of him says that in a world where tears are like blue ink, he wouldn't be able to hide like he does. If that happened, he'd have to scrub it off his face, sneak his clothes and bedsheets down to wash them with a flustered, red face. Not as if that doesn't happen occasionally, he is a teenager, but still.

Really, if tears were blue, it'd be harder to conceal – and that thought puts him a little on edge. Ridiculous, but still.

What also annoys him is how _beautiful_ some tears are shown. A perfect look of elegent sorrow, tears glistening. No. Not in his experience, at least. He's all snot and blotchy, sticky cheeks. It's ugly and embarrassing, he doesn't _want_ to cry, but he does. He does because his mind doesn't seem to realise that everything's so fucking _great_ now!

"Kyoya?" He heard Tamaki inquire, turning his attention away from the _grey, grey, oh so grey_ canvas, "Are you alright? Your quiet…"

He smiles, his cheeks ache, and he's glad that tears aren't actually blue ink.

"I'm fine."


End file.
